


Five Times Sleep Messed Things Up and One Time It Didn't

by badwolfbadwolf



Category: James Bond - All Media Types
Genre: 5 Times, 5+1 Things, Developing Relationship, First Kiss, Fluff, Light Angst, M/M, Sleepiness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-29
Updated: 2014-01-29
Packaged: 2018-01-10 10:56:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1158856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/badwolfbadwolf/pseuds/badwolfbadwolf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sleep deprivation and MI6 don't mix well.</p><p>  <i>“Sleeping on the job, Quartermaster?” Bond says, and the look on his face is inscrutable.</i></p><p>  <i>Q huffs and takes a sip, letting the tea linger on his tongue before swallowing as he parses his response.  “You’re a bloody wanker.”  It comes out sounding like a petty, schoolboy insult, and Bond laughs in surprise.  It makes his whole face light up genuinely, and Q looks at the way the crinkles around his lips and eyes soften him into something more palatable.  He glances away before Bond can read too much into it.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Times Sleep Messed Things Up and One Time It Didn't

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kru](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kru/gifts).



> Written for Kru/[Leeeeeex](http://leeeeeex.tumblr.com/) for the 00Q New Years Eve Party fic exchange. 
> 
> She prompted:  
> I would give only four words to tangled them in the text. Words: keys, water, snow, socks.
> 
> Thank you to the lovely and fantastic drgirlfriend for beta-ing! <3

**Five**

“Sitrep, 007.”  Q’s voice is calm and unaffected, though Bond knows the man is on high alert.  He can just imagine the cogs turning in that clever mind, looking at the angles, looking for Bond.

“She hasn’t shown yet.  I’m walking in now.”  He speaks softly, knowing Q can hear him perfectly across the wires.  The double doors are heavy as he pushes through them, the crowd of people sudden and loud.  He makes his way through, sits down at the expensively-decorated bar, glances around at the other patrons with a practiced air of nonchalance.

“Ah, there you are.”  

Bond turns the corner of his lips into the slightest of smirks.  The bartender thinks he’s smiling at her and heads over, leaning along the bar suggestively.  Bond lets his smirk turn into a charming smile which she reciprocates.  He knows he looks the part, tuxedo sharp and well-fitted, his gun discreetly tucked away next to his ribs.

“Vodka martini, please.”

“Shaken or stirred?”

“You choose.”  He grins at the woman and can nearly hear Q roll his eyes.

“So subtle, 007.  Aren’t you supposed to be on high alert and not flirting with the staff?”

“Jealous?” Bond asks quietly, smiling as the bartender returns with his glass.  He takes a sip and looks up at her with bright blue eyes.  “Excellent, thank you.”

“You wish,” Q quips back, and then is silent.  

The bartender smiles and leaves, and Bond listens to Q tapping at the keyboard as he turns on the bar stool, scanning over the sea of well-dressed socialites.

Bond hums, noncommittally.  “Am I early for the party?  I thought R was supposed to be here already.  And the mark.”

“I’m checking.”  Bond can hear the irritation in Q’s tone.  Q doesn’t like to be challenged, and he doesn’t like it when things go wrong.  It makes Bond kind of like the man, even if he won’t admit it.

“Fuck.”  

It takes all of Bond’s training to remain impassive as he listens to Q swear over the line.  He sips his martini, feeling it burn before setting it down on the marble of the bar.

“The mark fucking fell asleep.  R’s stuck in the closet.  You need to go bang on the door.”

Bond stands immediately, walks out of the room, hand aching to grab for his gun but restraining himself.

“Shit.”

 

**Four**

Q is drunk.  Pissed.  Sloshed.  And plastering himself against Bond’s side.  He reaches for his pint glass, fingers tracing along the beaded water droplets dripping down the side.  Bond watches as he does it, watches the fingertips trace and curl, wonders what they’d feel like on his skin.  He finds out a moment later as Q pulls a wet fingertip over Bond’s knuckles and up along the bony knob of his wrist.  It’s wet and cold and lights Bond on fire for a brief moment before he gathers his wits enough to shift his hand away.  Q drops his hand into his own lap, not looking at Bond, not doing anything but biting his lip until it’s red as an apple.

Eve is telling a joke that Bond supposes is funny if he were really paying attention, but the way Q’s elbow is pressing into his side and the way Q is taking little hitching breaths is leaving him feeling a little funny.

“Water, Q,” Bond says, pushing the glass towards the man; Q pays no attention.

Long fingers travel over into Bond’s lap and start to move upward, and Bond quickly places his hand over Q’s, pinning it down.  The fingers flex and wiggle, and Q squirms next to him before pulling his hand away.  He turns to look at Bond, and Bond looks back at Q — _really_ looks at him.

His dark hair is wild, the fringe pushed to one side and hanging down in a shaggy mane over one eye.  His cheeks are flushed pink and he smiles shyly at Bond before darting his eyes downward.  He looks young and... something else.  Happy?  Bond’s not sure if he could recognize that feeling if it were holding a sign in front of him.

“Let’s get you home, Q,” Bond says gruffly, pulling away from Q’s thin frame and out of the booth.

Q frowns momentarily, looking at the space between them.  He lets Bond pull him out of the seat, lets Bond manhandle him into his coat one arm at a time like he’s a little boy again.  Q lets Bond tuck him into a cab, and lets him sit next to him, warm but distant.

Q seems to be trying to fight it off but nods off against Bond’s shoulder nonetheless, nuzzling into the warmth of Bond’s peacoat and making a slight noise of distress at the scratchiness of the wool fabric.  He awakens with a snort as the cab stops quicker than necessary.

Q gathers himself and moves to open the door, looking back at Bond with a sleepy smile and hair plastered down to one side.  “Don’t you want to…?”  He nods slightly with his head, tilting it away, face hopeful.

“Another time,” Bond says as gently as possible, and the look on Q’s face makes him regret it immediately.  He wants to go up.  He wants to kiss Q and tuck him under the blankets and maybe fuck him when the morning light starts to spill over white bedsheets.  

Instead he smiles and Q knows it’s fake, the mask sliding down once again over the face that’s young and yet old with burden.  “Right then.  Goodnight, 007.”

Q steps out into the snow and cold, and just like that, they are back to Agent and Quartermaster.

 

**Three**

“007.  007, report.”  Q tries to keep his voice steady, but he can hear a bit of hysteria creeping in around the edges.  Seventy-two hours of wakefulness.  He knows he could do it — has done it before.  But Bond?  Bond hasn’t ever tried.  

There’s nothing, just radio silence, and Q is suddenly terrified.  There are no images, no video feeds to access — Bond had gone in with nothing except the earpiece, and Q was blind.  Bond had assured him it was alright.  Bond had said he’d be okay.  Bond’s voice had been calm and steady and soothing.  And Q had listened like a fucking idiot.

Q jabbed at the button on the console in front of him, the one that led directly to M’s emergency line.

“Sir?” Q barked as soon as he was connected.

“Yes?”  Mallory had obviously been sleeping and Q heard the shifting of sheets as the man sat up and the rough breathing in the phone in exactly the way he didn’t hear it over Bond’s comm.  It made him well up with panic.  He had never been a panicker.  He was not afraid.  He was not afraid.

“007’s gone.  Off the grid.  There was silence and then — ”  He paused to swallow, the words stuck in his throat like dry toast.  He could say it.  He could.  “There was an explosion.”

“What about 006?”

“006 is too far away for immediate assistance.  If we could scramble a helicopter, though… the Americans owe us a favor. All I need is your authorization.”

The silence between them is palpable, and Q can hear Mallory thinking, deciding.  Q closes his eyes and sees Bond looking back at him, smirking, smiling, laughing, grimacing.  All the things he’d never seen.  All the things he would never see.  

“Make the call.  Report when the chopper and 006 get there.  I’m coming in…”

“Yes, sir.”  Q returns to action, his mind now having something to fixate on.  Twenty minutes pass in a second and Q looks down, not recognizing his fingers on the keyboard and not hearing the words that he has been speaking in a dull monotone.

Only when Alec’s voice comes on the comm, gruff and relieved, does Q feel the knot in his stomach slowly loosen.  And then when 007’s, Bond’s, _James’s_ voice...

“I fell asleep.  Just for a second.  The car crashed.  I’m sorry.”

Q feels the rush of adrenaline drip out through his toes, and he sits down on his stool, mute and dumbfounded.

“It’s alright.  You’re alright, James.  I’m here now.”  Alec’s Russian accent says all that Q can’t.

 

**Two**

When Bond returns to MI6 it’s unannounced and nonchalant, like everything the bastard does.  Q only knows about it because of the flurry of activity in Medical and the way a loud clanging in the hall interrupts the relative quiet of Q-branch.  It knocks him out of his sleepy stupor and he sits up tall, reaching for his mug.

He breathes in the steam, smelling the familiar scent of bergamot, letting the warmth of the cup seep through into his fingertips.  The pull of sleep is heavy on him and he stands, if only to stave off the fuzzy press against his mind.

“Sleeping on the job, Quartermaster?” Bond says, and the look on his face is inscrutable.

Q huffs and takes a sip, letting the tea linger on his tongue before swallowing as he parses his response.  “You’re a bloody wanker.”  It comes out sounding like a petty, schoolboy insult, and Bond laughs in surprise.  It makes his whole face light up genuinely, and Q looks at the way the crinkles around his lips and eyes soften him into something more palatable.  He glances away before Bond can read too much into it.

“That’s why you like me.”

And _well_ , Q can’t really argue with that, so instead he frowns and sips his tea again, ever the actor.

“I don’t suppose you have your Walther to return, do you 007?”

Bond grins and reaches into his jacket, his look triumphant as he sets it down carefully on the table in front of Q’s fingertips.  It looks pristine, the gunmetal shiny as if it had been polished with a loving hand.

Q raises an eyebrow, impressed but trying not to show it.

 

**One**

As far as first dates go, it is definitely one of the weirdest that Q’s been on.  The Indian food had been exceedingly spicy, and the four glasses of water he had gulped down were definitely not enough to quench the fire on his tongue and lips.

“Probably not my best plan,” Bond muses as they stop outside Q’s front stoop.  It is snowing and freezing, and Q huddles into the hood of his parka, no doubt looking like a shivering, furry burrito.  His nose is freezing and his hands are numb, shoved down in the deep pockets.

Bond pulls him close and Q lurches forward awkwardly, arms pinned down and unmoving as he struggles to free them from his jacket.  

“My socks are wet,” Q says against Bond’s lips, feeling extremely stupid.

Bond smiles, their breath visible in the sliver of air between them.  Q watches the man move closer and closer, as his heartbeat suddenly starts hammering away.  Their lips brush and Q feels his heart gallop off, his breath catching, the spices burning on his tongue.  It is what he thought it’d be, and yet not, somehow hot and cold and burning and frigid all at once.  The sensations mingle together, Q’s lips on fire and his hands icicles against Bond’s neck, and then a catcall has them breaking apart and grinning at each other like teenagers.

Q flushes crimson and they shuffle their feet as they wait for the drunken revelers to pass.

“Past my bedtime,” Q says with a shy smile, unsure if he’s offering for Bond to come up, or looking for an excuse to slip away.  Bond’s blue eyes and gloved hands and smile that looks too happy to be real make Q shift and blush in sudden awkwardness.

“Goodnight, Q.”

“No jokes about my age, then?” Q quips, putting his hands back in his pockets for lack of anything better to do with them.

Bond kisses him once more, deep and lingering, ending with a gentle bite to Q’s lower lip and a devastating smile.

“Goodnight, Bond,” Q says, turning to push his key into the lock and delighted when he doesn’t stumble once.

 

**And that other time**

Early morning is his favourite time of day, Bond decides.  He likes to watch Q sleep, likes to watch the way his naked shoulder gets lost in the whiteness of the sheets.  There’s the way the childhood scar bends down around the sharp elbow, and the way Q’s breath eases in and out like he’s carefree and young again.  He doesn’t have the weight of responsibility, the worry of M’s glower, the fear of losing yet another agent.  He’s just Q.  Just his Q.

Bond presses soft kisses to the shoulder blade, smiling as the man snuffles grumpily and swats back at him.

“Do you want some tea?” Bond asks into the skin of Q’s neck, and Q wriggles against him, suddenly ticklish.

“What did I say about waking me before the sun is up?” Q murmurs, rolling over and squinting up at Bond.  The hazel of his eyes is dark in the dim light, sleep crusted into the corner, lashes sticking together.  

Bond leans down and kisses the mole on his cheek, runs his fingers through Q’s messy hair.

“Sorry, love,” Bond says, and Q lets him kiss him, lazy and deep, unbrushed teeth and all.  He apologizes with kisses and licks and the slide of cool palms along naked skin.  

Bond lets Q leave his socks on.   _That is the definition of true love_ , he thinks to himself.  He says nothing though, the words too tough to get out just yet.


End file.
